


B&E

by DancerInTheMoonlight



Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe, Breaking and Entering, Crack Treated Seriously, Endgame Blaine Anderson/Sebastian Smythe, Fever, Fluff, Fluff and Crack, Friendship, M/M, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-11
Updated: 2018-08-30
Packaged: 2019-05-21 04:50:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14908670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DancerInTheMoonlight/pseuds/DancerInTheMoonlight
Summary: Yes, Blaine Anderson thought as he walked straight into the quiet’s tight and lingering embrace, and suddenly felt like he couldn’t breathe. This is how it ends.





	1. Prologue

_So, this is how it ends_ , he thought to himself as he stared at the featureless and expensive front door, a pleasantly bland, earthy grey against the sea of creamy white.

No, not creamy. Eggshell white. Ku— _his_ _designer’s_ sharp eye would have distinguished that.

Releasing a heavy sigh, his hand turned the sleek handle on the impersonal, stylish door which opened without a sound, just as a door like that should. At least the act of opening his own front door proved considerably less time-consuming than the previous engagement of figuring out the security code with nothing but a blank stare.

_Yes_ , Blaine Anderson thought as he walked straight into the quiet’s tight and lingering embrace, and suddenly felt like he couldn’t breathe. _This is how it ends_.


	2. Breaking

* * *

  _Get a grip on it, Smythe_ —in a voice not unlike his father’s, Sebastian mentally scolded himself as he was overcome by a sudden wave of fatigue for the second time that evening, and his hand ran the risk of losing the fragile hold it had on the thick glass balustrade which surrounded a huge balcony. ( _Who in the hell_ buys _those?)_ Yes, using the front door would have been an easier way to begin with, seeing as he managed to disable all security alarms for a grand total of whole three minutes, but Sebastian preferred not to leave any immediate evidence of a break-in if he could help it. Besides, he wouldn’t be using the front door as a means of escape so he failed to see the point.

With all his might, Sebastian hoisted himself up and over the thick glass, staggering only a little when his feet touched the lavish granite floor. No lights were on, but the entire house shone under the bright moonlight coming from the orb in the middle of a starless sky, pitch-black against gleaming white. It turned the wide wall of glass which made up the upper floor into an extravagant black mirror, and Sebastian caught his reflection. He straightened his sagged posture and ignored a shudder which made its way through him like a tidal wave to the shore. He wasn’t sick. Sebastian never got sick, and _this will not be the end, because Hummel’s definitely out tonight and it’s a perfect opportunity—_ if only his head would stop pulsing— he took the damn aspirin _, well why wasn’t it working? (Maybe because you’re climbing onto people’s balconies after nearly an hour-long motorcycle ride and a ten minute walk from where you hid it, instead of sleeping it off?)_

It was a quiet night, and the only sound was the clear ringing in Sebastian’s ears. He could see the trees sway in the slight breeze but couldn’t feel it due to his face mask.

Sebastian Smythe didn’t get sick. It just didn’t happen. Despite his lean build, Sebastian was one of the sturdiest men alive; that’s what kept him going in his line of business. _Not_ that Sebastian was in any way in _the_ _business_ _of breaking and entering for a living_.

He scoffed a laugh at the thought, but it promptly became a shudder. Damn it all, he was seeing this through. Hummel was one of those obnoxiously wealthy people who would sooner go bankrupt than notice something missing. Besides, not that Sebastian was actually taking anything with him, so to speak.

He deftly opened the bedroom door with half a minute to spare.

People, Sebastian often found, kept anything they considered truly valuable close to where they slept. It was the most intimate place to hide. That’s why he never targeted bedrooms – it was easiest to notice something missing, and Sebastian was of the opinion that the best robberies were the ones which went unnoticed for as long as possible.

Sebastian quickly made his way past the carved wooden frame on a king-size bed, which wrapped up in what looked like gold (yes, _gold_ ) satin sheets and surrounded by white, furry carpets. It gave Sebastian a general idea of the kind of person who slept in golden sheets. One could only dare to imagine what this guy Hummel wore in waking life.

The rest of the house was styled in a similar manner. It was a sleek expensive interior with an air of somewhat impersonal baroque-ness to it. Glimpses of gold and curvy endings were obviously a thing, and yet there was absolutely no items which indicated that someone was actually living there. No family photos, no random artefacts, such as bits of change, a stray cufflink, car keys, or even a magazine. The place was almost sterile, in its stylishly baroque, subdued way, and Sebastian had to resist the urge to swipe a finger over a surface and see if it would come off with any dust.

It took him a while to locate the room he was looking for, and Sebastian told himself it was because the house was way too big – not because he had to stop a few times and rest against some of the massive curvy furniture along the way. 

By the time he managed to get to the ground floor, Sebastian felt incredibly tired.

_Come on, Smythe, just this one. Nearly there_.

They’d agreed he take a picture in case he needed an alibi.

Well, no, Sebastian agreed on it with himself, because not only was Santana generally _against_ the idea of sneaking into an ex-client’s home – _even though he was a bad, bad, suspicious ex-client who made many a people’s lives miserable on a_ good _day_ \- and snooping, but she also had no idea he was sneaking into an ex-client’s home. Or maybe by now she figured it out, since they were supposed to discuss something tonight and Sebastian texted he was going out instead. If nothing else, she was probably very pissed he blew her off. He’d send some flowers.

The focus on his camera phone seemed uncharacteristically blurry. Sebastian squinted at the screen.

It was lighter than he remembered when he came in. There was a soft light coming from the opposite direction, from what Sebastian supposed was the kitchen or the dining room. The house was big enough to have these two separated, unlike many Sebastian had been to due to his job. (His _actual_ job.)

_That’s odd_ , he thought. Hummel, what he knew of him through Santana’s loud mouth, didn’t strike him as a person who’d forget he left the kitchen light on. Or make any use of a kitchen light in the first place, for that matter.

Approaching the room, he heard it. It may have been the buzzing in his own ears. Something shuffling. Sebastian frowned in the doorway. There was no one in the fancy old-fashioned kitchen, not as sleek and unused-looking as the rest of the house, but Sebastian swore he heard something move.

Looking around, his eyes fell on the stove, just below a small kitchen light warmly glowing in the darkness. Sebastian couldn’t smell it (he’d worry about that later) but he could see it. A big silver bowl. Something was on the stove and it had been recently cooked. The steam creeping up and into the air from underneath a half-closed lid was as good an indicator as any.

Before he could move any closer, there were voices.

“… _ne même pas d’historie…_ ”

And they spoke… French? He shook his head. This was not a good time to hallucinate.

“ _Ma vie cesse quand tu pars_ —“ Sebastian could hear the accompanying music now, too, which worried him further- “ _quand tu t’en vas!_ ”

Sebastian’s ears were ringing, but this was not happening in his head, he realised, as the song magically increased in volume and he recognised the singer. Somebody was playing music—which meant—

“ _JE SUIS MALADE! COMPLÈTMENT MALADE!_ ”

Sebastian started because this was no longer the voice from the track, half-yelling the words somewhere nearby.

“ _PARFAITMENT MALADE!_ “

Well, shit. The words were coming closer.

“… _t’arrives on ne sait jamais quand, tu repars on ne sait jamais où…_ ”

Shit. Shit, shit, shit—

“… _et ça va faire bient—_ “

Sebastian stood petrified in the middle of the kitchen, as an unlikely-looking man emerged from the dark, vast space of an adjoining room. The man didn’t notice the intruder right away but Sebastian had been too stunned to move and, in hindsight, probably too dizzy, as well.

Breaking off mid-lyric, the man across the room froze and stared as Sebastian, a pair of puffy eyes on his face open wide. The guy was all raven curls, a pair of sweatpants and some kind of a fraternity jumper, both of which had seen better days and therefore made him look like a young hobo Antonio Banderas-turned-squatter, and he had a huge mug which he was gripping a little bit too tightly with his shaky hands and—this was _not_ how Sebastian imagined Kurt Hummel _at all_ , and— _c’est ça,_ Sebastian thought bitterly, _je suis vraiment malade,_ as another wave of dizziness came over him and sent his vision swimming, stripping his mind of all notion of reality long before his body collapsed to Hummel’s kitchen floor.

***

Blaine stood frozen in his kitchen doorway, the grip on his half-drunk mug of chicken soup tighter than necessary.

There was a burglar.

In his kitchen.

And Blaine had just watched him _collapse_ to the floor.

Blaine shook his head a bit, just to make sure he wasn’t imagining things. Sure enough, when he turned his eyes back to that spot, his vision was greeted by a pair of long legs sprawled on the floor, peeking from behind the counter.

_Oh my god, this man collapsed!_

Blaine snapped out of it and, placing his mug on the counter, hurriedly approached the heap of black leather-clad limbs ( _was that a motorcycle jacket?_ ) attached to the man on his kitchen floor.

Was he… _What if he’s dead? Oh God, don’t be dead, don’t be dead_ —thought Blaine, trying to detect any signs of life, and not succeeding. He couldn’t see his face due to the (again, was that _a biker’s mask?_ ) tight piece of clothing which covered every part of the man’s head, save the currently closed eyes. Blaine also remembered he should check if the guy was breathing, but—but—

What if this was part of the plan—like, what if-- what if the guy was simply biding time (he looked as surprised as Blaine felt, back there) and waiting for Blaine to bend over his lifeless form so he can hit him over the head, or whatever it was burglars did in such circumstances, and get what he came for?

Unlike all the crime stories he was into, this real-life experience was progressively _un_ -exciting.

For the tiniest, blissful moment, Blaine imagined himself calling 911 and then getting the hell away from there to lock himself in the bathroom, or something, until help arrived. Preferably with his half-full mug of chicken soup.

Then, he crouched beside the man on the floor and, with a string of internal curses, began removing his mask. It was a struggle, but the man never even stirred. This was quite worrying, in fact, and Blaine found himself very relieved when his burglar turned out to be breathing, after all.

The guy had a boyish face, he looked— _too young to be riding that kind of motorcycle_ , Blaine thought as he finally managed to pull the stupid mask off completely. It felt oddly moist in his hands. Blaine found the pulse point on the guy’s neck.

_What the_ —the guy was burning up! _No wonder he collapsed_ , _who does that, breaking into a house in high fever?_ Blaine felt the guy’s face in shock, deciding suddenly that whatever this man has done or been about to do here, Blaine couldn’t leave him on his kitchen floor, unconscious, burning up to what felt like well over 40.6°C.

Blaine also decided it would be best if he moved the guy to the couch in the next room. This was proving to be a proper task because the guy was— _oh wow, he’s really tall_ —Blaine observed as he somehow managed to hoist him up. Halfway to the couch, the guy came to.

“ _Maman? C’est toi?_ ”

_No_ , thought Blaine _, I’m not your_ —wait, French? _He’s French?_ Blaine frowned, but the guy mumbled something incoherent, eyes half-closed.

_Just delirious, then_. He could deal with that.

Blaine was totally prepared to fight a delirious person onto the couch. What he wasn’t prepared for was for the man to become unresponsive once more, his entire form convulsing uncontrollably.

***

“ _911, what’s your emergency?_ ”

“I uh, I have a—“ _Male? Adult? Human?_ “— _person_ … High fever. He collapsed, but then he came to, and now he’s shaking—I don’t—“

“ _Okay. Sir, I need you to remain calm._ ”

“Calm. Yes.”

“ _Can you tell me your address?_ ”

Blaine told her.

“ _Okay. Is the person breathing?_ ”

“Yes.” _Thank god_.

“ _Good. We need to keep it that way. Can you describe the convulsions?_ ”

“H-his upper body is shaking. Like he’s cold.” _Like he’s being possessed_ , Blaine thought looking at the man’s wide, unfocused eyes. They were green. “I rolled him to the side, but he won’t stop shaking.”

“ _Okay, that’s good. Keep him like that but don’t try to restrain him, and don’t put anything into his mouth. Loosen any clothing around his neck._ ”

Blaine confirmed that he already had.

“ _Good. Do you know how high his fever is?_ ”

“No, but he’s burning up pretty bad.”

“ _Okay. The seizure is most likely being caused by fever. Sir, I need you to try and lower his body temperature._ ”

“Okay.”

“ _Has he got any heavy or tight clothing on?_ ”

“Uh.”

Blaine thought it an understatement. The guy might as well have been wearing a full-body armour, what with that close-fitting motorcycle suit which enveloped his lean body; an expensive, pitch-black get-up with built-in protection which made him look like a biker Batman, paired off with tight leather pants which left very little to imagination (not that Blaine looked!) and a pair of securely strapped, elegantly reinforced boots.

“Yes.”

“ _Remove as much as you can._ ”

Blaine frowned at the receiver.

“ _Sir?_ ”

“Yes! On it.” He put the call on speaker. Removing the jacket was a bitch. Blaine briefly wondered if he should have started with the boots, as finally he pulled those off, as well. Surprisingly, the pants were the least problematic, despite their tightness.

Of course, the guy had been wearing thermal clothes under that jacket. Blaine witnessed his body stop shaking considerably, once he managed to peel off the thermal shirt. _What an idiot_.

“ _Sir? Is everything under control?_ ” Blaine snapped out of staring at the burglar’s pale chest, which was all lean muscle and collarbones and endless freckles. _Way_ _too young for that kind of bike_. He remembered the pants.

“Yeah, nearly done!”

Only, Blaine recoiled as soon as he started to pull, realising the guy had been wearing those thermal pants as a piece of long underwear only _after_ he already got an eyeful of—certain portions of his pale body.

The guy really was quite pale. It made his flaming cheeks stand out against all the creamy white.

His convulsions subdued to an occasional shudder. The pants would, fortunately, remain in place.

“He’s stopped shaking so much,” Blaine informed the operator.

“ _That’s good._ ”

“But his body temperature is still pretty high.”

“ _Do you have a wet towel or a washcloth nearby?_ ”

“Uh,” Blaine went and grabbed a washcloth from the kitchen sink. He rinsed it with water. “Yeah, got it.”

“ _Apply it on his face and neck. It should take the edge off. Just make sure it’s not too cold, and keep changing the cloths until the paramedics arrive._ ”

So Blaine did. The guy’s fever seemed to die down. When the ambulance arrived, they checked the guy’s vitals and made sure he was put into a proper bed. Which happened to be the one in the master bedroom.

Blaine hadn’t given it much thought, mostly because that had been a lot less complicated course of action than explaining how the guy ended up at his house (at this hour) in the first place.

“As soon as he comes to, be sure to keep him hydrated and give him some medication to keep the fever under control,” said the paramedic. “Do you know if he’s allergic to ibuprofen or other anti-inflammatory drugs?”

“Uh—“ _he better not be_ “—no.  No allergies.”

“Great. A couple of Advils then, and it’s all set. No need for hospitals unless things get worse,” the paramedic smiled reassuringly. “Keep the fever at bay and they shouldn’t.”

“Will do. Thank you.”

“No problem,” replied the paramedic as they were approaching the front door. “Oh, your and balcony door’s open. Best close it overnight. Wouldn’t want your friend to catch pneumonia.”

_So that’s how he got in. Impressive_.

“Sure.”

“Have a good night, Mr. Anderson.”

“You too.”

Closing the door behind him, Blaine couldn’t help but wonder how his evening turned out like this. A burglar, in his bed.

All he wanted was to mope, and some chicken soup.

***

Sebastian woke up wrapped in golden sheets. He had no idea where he was but he hoped it had been worth it. His throat felt pretty sore.

_Oh_.

_Wait_.

Suddenly alert, Sebastian attempted to sit up, however, he did it too fast and promptly collapsed back with a groan. His head was spinning. _What the hell_. He was naked in the rich guy’s bed. A glance around the room told him it was the same one he came in through. Only now the day was breaking.

His clothes were neatly tossed over a nearby chair. Weird. Turning his head, Sebastian spotted a glass of water on the nightstand to his right and realized he craved nothing more in his entire life. Next to the glass were some kind of painkillers. Perfection.

Moving deliberately slowly, Sebastian reached out and took the glass. He drank half of it before popping two of those pills into his mouth and then chugged the rest. He laid back down.

Fainting in a stranger’s house during burglary was one thing, but this guy Hummel obviously wasn’t as bad as Santana made him out to be, seeing as he put Sebastian into his own bed. Naked, yes, but Sebastian checked, and he still had his underpants on and noting felt weird (except those obnoxiously coloured sheets, _jeez_ ), so he suspected no foul play.

Whatever this guy’s angle was, the least Sebastian could do was regain his strength, in case he needed to get away quickly. Advil should help with the headache, and Hummel had clearly been nice enough to offer it to him.

Sebastian closed his eyes with a sigh. Hummel was… not what he’d been expecting. Not that he’d been expecting anyone at all tonight…But he had _curly hair_. Sebastian chuckled. Sleep was taking over. _Hummel and his curly hair_. Sebastian frowned sleepily. _He looked sad… Maybe he could use some painkillers, too…_

***

Blaine couldn’t sleep. There was a burglar, unconscious, in his bed.

What if he guy got worse in his sleep? And died on him? Blaine just told the paramedics the guy was a friend, and Blaine didn’t even know his name. He should have called the police—he’ll have hell of a time explaining it all to them anyway, if the guy happened to kick it on Blaine’s watch!

The said guy seemed to be lost to the world, deeply asleep, even though his body temperature dropped considerably. Blaine checked. Every fifteen minutes or so.

Fighting off a panic attack, Blaine frantically searched the guy’s pockets—not that there were many, considering what he’d been wearing. He found some money, bike keys ( _duh_!) and some kind of a solicitor’s business card, but no ID. The guy’s phone, which he dropped in the kitchen, was locked, although there were several unread messages. The battery was low. Maybe Blaine should dial some of the guy’s emergency contacts and – _oh, get it together, Blaine! You can just ask him when he wakes up_.

Only, the guy _wouldn’t_ wake up and Blaine was too nervous to even think about sitting down, let alone resting, himself. So he went to the kitchen and made some more chicken soup. It helped whenever he was feeling down. Or upset. Both of which had been the case.

***

Blaine was waiting for the water to boil and still trying to figure out some piece of information from the guy’s phone, when the phone in his hand buzzed. _INCOMING CALL_ from _SATAN._ _What a weird name_ , he thought. _Or a symbolically appropriate one_.

Blaine stared at the caller-ID. 

There was a fair chance this person would call the police in search of the guy if he never picked up the phone. Although, it also might be the guy’s accomplice, someone who has been waiting for a signal to get in and not answering the call would be even more suspicious, signalling the guy was in some kind of trouble.

But what if the signal was something else, like to _decline_ the call? If Blaine was breaking into someone’s house (which he wouldn’t do, _ever_ , by the way) he wouldn’t be answering phone calls.

Blaine was torn. The thing in his hand buzzed relentlessly.

Maybe there was a way he could stay silent throughout the conversation and let the other person do all the talking. Let them think he was who they supposed he was.

Blaine accepted the call.

“ _Where the hell are you, twink_?” said an angry woman’s voice as soon as the call connected. Well. Satan was apparently a woman.

“Uh…”

“ _Don’t tell me you’re stuck with one of those escorts again, Sebastian, because I_ swear _—_ “

So the guy’s name was unexpectedly fitting. Sebastian. It was nice, Blaine thought. Nobody had long names anymore.

Wait, hold up. _Escorts_? Was the guy a pimp?

“ _Hello? Answer me!_ ”

In his obsessing over the _escorts_ part, Blaine forgot to listen to what was coming out of the angry person’s mouth on the other end.

“U-Uhm—“ he stuttered in a wheezy, giggly sort of way. Panic usually did that to him.

“ _Wait. Twink, are you_ high?”

Blaine was too shocked to refrain from replying.

“What—No!”

Shit. There was a pause.

“ _Who is this?_ ”

Blaine wanted to kick himself.

“This is… Sebastian’s phone.” Blaine hoped the guy’s name didn’t sound too unused on his tongue.

“ _And you are?_ ”

“His. Um. Company,” he hoped to all supreme forces that he didn’t sound unsure. “He can’t come to the phone right now.” Because he’s unconscious. And dehydrated. And possibly dead from another seizure by now because nobody checked on him for almost 30 minutes. ( _Don’t go there, Blaine_. _He is alive_. _He is fine_.)

“ _Oh, he is with an escort, then? Typical._ ” This woman sounded pissed. “ _Well you can tell him, when he_ can come _to the phone, not to bother calling back because he missed out big time tonight and there won’t be another chance like this! I hope a blow job was fucking worth it!_ ” And then she abruptly hung up, in the middle of something unintelligible which sounded a lot like further cursing.

Not an accomplice, then. An angry girlfriend, perhaps? Only, she called him _twink_. Twice.

She sounded really disappointed. And pissed. Blaine guessed she wouldn’t be calling again anytime soon.

Blaine went back to his soup.

But not before he went to check on this guy Sebastian, real quick.

***

About 6 AM Blaine was finally feeling his eyes fall shut, when he thought he heard a groan coming from the master bedroom. His inner (panicked) debate on what to do evidently took too long, because the guy— _Sebastian_ – was back asleep by the time Blaine peeked into the room. He took the Advil, though. Blaine was glad for that as he quietly closed the door once more.


	3. Entering

***

The next time Sebastian woke, he observed two things.

One, he was still in that tacky (yet comfortable) bed, and two, he felt absolutely disgusting.

It was late morning, it seemed, but someone (Hummel, he supposed) pulled the curtains together to keep the sunlight from shining directly into his face.

Sebastian felt rested. Obviously he’d slept longer than he thought. Hummel didn’t mind. . . He was beginning to wonder if the guy would appear at all, now that Sebastian was awake. Clearly he’d been around plenty of times while Sebastian was sleeping. Hopefully didn’t mess his things up.

_Oh shit_ , he needed to _call Santana_!

Sebastian scrambled out of his golden wrappings and went for his jacket. (He most certainly did _not_ stagger, or felt light-headed.)

Sebastian fished for his phone in his jacket, but came up empty handed. He must have dropped it somewhere in the middle of his fainting. Great. Now he’ll have to ask the person whose house he broke into for a phone call. The irony. 

“You’re awake.”

Sebastian did not hear the door slide open. And he also _did not_ jump uttering a little yell of surprise like an excitable ten-year-old girl.

It was the curly-haired Hummel, clad in the same, unfathomable clothes as before, only this time he was holding a bowl of something in his hands, instead of a mug. Sebastian didn’t move.

“I thought you might—“ he shook his head. “It’s chicken soup,” Hummel declared as if there was no other available explanation.

“You give chicken soup everyone who breaks into your house?” Sebastian didn’t know what else to say, so he went straight to the point. It was already obvious what he’d been doing here earlier.

“You were _unconscious_ ,” Hummel replied, flatly. Sebastian thought the look of slight indignation suited him much better than that look of woe he wore when Sebastian first laid his unsuspecting eyes on him.

“Right. I admit _that_ was somewhat unexpected.”

Well, this was awkward.

Sebastian hadn’t broken into that many houses (he _had_ an _actual_ job, okay?), but this kind of situation was absolutely a first. He suspected it was a first for Hummel, as well. Sebastian glanced over to the guy and frowned in confusion when he saw that he look of indignation had been replaced by a panicked one. Sebastian then realized he was swaying where he stood.

“Do you mind if I lie back down for a sec?” he said, flopping onto the eyesore sheets without further ado.

“Are you feeling faint again?” Hummel sounded uncomfortably alert. The soup was placed next to his box of Advil and Sebastian started when Hummel put a quick hand to his forehead, pressing a wrist against it and comparing it to the other one he was urgently pressing against his own. Hummel blushed furiously when he realized what he was doing, and Sebastian was suddenly sorry his dizziness didn’t land him into a more attractive position. Hummel had curls _and_ he blushed. This alone was worth fainting on the job. (Besides the _other_ one he had.)

“I’ll go get the thermometer. Don’t move,” Hummel announced and practically ran towards the door, like a man possessed.

Sebastian briefly wondered if he went to call the police.

* * *

_Omg, what is_ wrong _with you Blaine Anderson!_

Blaine found the time to scold himself on his way to the thermometer, after fleeing the room like the furniture had suddenly caught fire.

Blaine had always been a friendly person. Some people, like his boyf— _some people_ thought that Blaine had a tendency for getting physically comfortable and becoming overly-friendly much too soon upon meeting somebody, but even Blaine was aware that _this_ was not the way to behave towards someone who broke into your house. Wait, _that guy broke into the house_ , Blaine almost forgot about that in the first place. . . How _should_ he behave now that his burglar’s awake?

Again, he felt a panic attack coming on.

Should he address it, like, _hey man, why’d you break into my house, anyway?_ Should he call the police?

Of course he couldn’t call the police. How would he explain a burglar with a bowl of soup, chilling, half-naked _…ly_ , in his bed?

Blaine found the thermometer where he left it when the paramedics came. In the meantime, he decided he would check the guy’s temperature and then send him on his way. He remembered the guy’s phone, but it was dead. He’ll let him call a cab. They don’t even have to address the burglary again. They could pretend that this was the aftermath of an intoxicated, rebound-esque, fabulous one night stand, and _Sebastian_ (Blaine suddenly remembered the guy’s name) was just leaving.

Blaine took a moment to bask in the irony of this sudden fabrication. After all, _that_ had been the reason Kurt broke up with him. Blaine laughed out loud in spite of himself. Kurt would not have believed him this time, either. _Blaine_ would hardly believe himself, to be honest.

So it was no more. _Kurt and Blaine were no more_.

And Blaine never even got the chance to properly mope! _Who does this Sebastian guy think he is, huh,_ to take his mope _and_ his soup away from Blaine in the most desperate of times! Him, with his stupid breaking and entering, and fainting! And his stupid thermal clothes!

Blaine found he got more upset over the fact that the entire affair interrupted his mope-fest than the fact that an unknown guy climbed into his house over the balcony in the middle of the night. Oh, Blaine was _so ready_ to get rid of him.

(As soon they made sure his body temperature was normal.)

( _Ew_. Not like that. He’s a criminal.)

 

* * *

Sebastian sipped the bowl of soup (amazingly good for someone who made a habit of sleeping wrapped up in golden sheets, but it could be the fever talking) and wondered if the police would let him represent his own case in court. It was a funny thought but unfortunately, all too probable, because he knew that sure as hell Santana _wouldn’t_. Not after the escorts incident. And not after he went on this little snooping adventure right behind her back, as soon as she found out Hummel would be leaving town for a couple of days. He could picture her strapping him to a chair (or a bed, _and_ _ooh, now there’s an interesting thought-maybe one like Hummel’s-_ ) to carve “I told you so” into his forehead, or something equally gruesome, because Santana would undeniably flip that Hummel had actually seen him.

Realizing she must have called him about twenty times by now, Sebastian was just about to resume searching for his phone, when Hummel re-entered the room.

“I thought I told you not to move.”

He sounded irritated and a little bit flustered, and Sebastian smirked. He was half-naked, after all, and there was not a single doubt in his mind about this guy.

Before Sebastian could come up with a witty retort, however, Hummel extended his hand and Sebastian took his phone back. Dead.

“Your phone’s dead,” Hummel observed.

“So I see. Would you mind if I—” he trailed off as he found Hummel staring at him from across the bed, his hand firmly clutching the thermometer. Sebastian thought it might break. The guy seemed to excel at clutching.

This was it, he thought. The moment Hummel tells him the police are waiting downstairs. Or the moment in which he lets go of the thermometer and decides to start clutching the life out of Sebastian, instead. Hummel appeared panicked enough to try that. Sebastian had witnessed enough trials to recognize the signs.

_Quickly now, Smythe, before he knocks a fist into your face_.

“Look, I apologize for breaking into your house,” Sebastian thought he’d stick with the ice-breaker from before and tried to come up with an appropriate facial expression. “It was on a dare.” He’d been trying for sheepish. (Hummel just looked on, so Sebastian had no idea if it was working.) “And I’m _really_ sorry for what happened afterwards.”

“A-afterwards?”

“The fainting, I mean…”

“Oh!” That seemed to do it. Just like that, Hummel was re-set back into nursing mode. Under less delicate circumstances, Sebastian might have found it amusing. “Please lie back down, or—or at least sit,” Hummel gestured at the bed, not looking at Sebastian. “I need to check your temperature, because the paramedic _specifically_ said—”

He couldn’t believe this guy.

“You do realize I broke into your house?” instead of amused, Sebastian became, in fact, incredulous. _Yeah, Smythe, dwell on it some more, why don’t you,_ a voice similar to Santana’s promptly sneered inside his head, _remind the guy why he’d been nervous in the first place_. _Ask him why the police haven’t stopped by yet_. _Idiot_.

Hummel cringed, but composed himself.

“Well, you can maybe explain it to me. . .sitting down? While I make sure you’re not, you know. Dying?”

It made Sebastian laugh. But Hummel seemed on the brink of freaking out again, so he hastily complied.

“Thank you,” Hummel said when Sebastian made himself comfortable on the bed and obediently put the thermometer in place, as if he’d been afraid Sebastian might make a run for the glass door and fling himself over the balcony.

Sebastian sighed. This guy had some serious perspective issues. Nevertheless, he’d found himself, due to his own sloppiness, in the guy’s personal space. He needed to build some trust.

“If anyone should be thanking people, it should be me – thanking _you_ ,” Sebastian said, “for feeding me Advil and chicken soup, instead of letting me rot on your kitchen floor.” He smiled, but Hummel looked queasy. “So thank you—uh,” Sebastian trailed off in fake curiosity, even though he already knew the guy’s name. _No time like the present for some introductions_. Santana was going to kill him—

“Blaine.”

_Huh_? Sebastian had been pretty sure Hummel’s name was _Kurt_. What his face looked like, Sebastian could only imagine, because Hummel suddenly offered a hand in a formal handshake.

“Blaine Anderson.”

Well, as formal as it could be when you were sitting shirtless on a king-sized bed which belonged to a guy whose house you’ve broken into, surrounded by golden sheets and gripping a thermometer under your arm (it may be the least accurate, but Sebastian felt strongly disinclined to put other people’s thermometers into his mouth. Or up his ass.).

 Stunned, Sebastian shook his hand.

“Sebastian. Uh—Smythe.”

Blaine-apparently-not-Kurt-Hummel-Anderson looked a little surprised, which Sebastian interpreted as disbelief.

“You can google me,” he hastened to add. “Look, I’m not really a burglar. I’m a lawyer.” Not as of late, however, but Blaine Anderson didn’t have to know that. “I know it sounds ridiculous, but I’m often a stupidly ridiculous person,” he added conversationally.

Sebastian couldn’t help but wonder about this guy. If he wasn’t Kurt Hummel, who was he? Santana never ever mentioned a Blaine Anderson. Was he Hummel’s help? A housekeeper? He seemed so out of place _and_ he obviously knew how to cook. And Hummel was a pretty loaded guy, who adorned his bed in golden sheets and installed thick glass balustrades. It wouldn’t be completely insane if he had a butler of some sort.

“So…what do _you_ do, Blaine?” Sebastian feigned casual interest. “Besides making a killer bowl of soup, that is.” He was rewarded with a ghost of a smile.

“Uh- I’m a journalist, actually,” the guy replied, sounding unsure.

“Oh, have I read anything of yours, recently?” while Sebastian’s interest was mildly peaked, in truth he wanted to gape at this Blaine guy with an exclamation of “ _for real_?”

“Well,” looking away, Blaine Anderson blushed a little, “no. I haven’t done any actual writing ever since I moved in with—” he stopped abruptly. Sebastian didn’t push it. Was the guy also an escort? (Hummel probably _could_ afford an escort, the lucky bastard.)

“Okay, well, when you have something, let me know. Especially if your writing’s as good as your cooking,” Sebastian couldn’t help but add. He was going to flirt with Hummel’s escort, and be damned.

“You really liked that soup, huh?”

“Hey, I was a dying man.” Blaine Anderson paled. _Oh, for the love of_ — “I’m kidding! Look, proof. No fever.” Sebastian gave the thermometer back to Blaine the journalist-slash-potential escort.

An awkward silence settled. Blaine Anderson seemed to be mulling something over.

“You can use the bathroom if you want,” he spoke after what looked like a short inner debate. “I’ll just…” but Sebastian never found out what he’ll just, because Blaine Anderson turned around and left the room.


End file.
